


turn on the bright lights

by thesaddestboner



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Anger Management, Anxiety, Gen, M/M, New York Rangers, Not!Fic, POV First Person, Psychologists & Psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I show up in Hartford with one faded Brett Hull t-shirt and a hockey stick that feels rough and unfamiliar in my hands.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn on the bright lights

**Author's Note:**

> The Brett Hull t-shirt forreal exists.
> 
> This is several years old. If I'd finished this it would have ended up Avery/Shanahan. Figured there was enough here that I'd post it as an abandoned work.
> 
> Title from the Interpol song.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

I show up in Hartford with one faded Brett Hull t-shirt and a hockey stick that feels rough and unfamiliar in my hands.

The new teammates cast me wary looks; one of them is going to lose his spot on this team because of me and I don't blame them for looking at me like dogs intent on protecting their territory.

When I walk into the lockerroom and make my way to my locker, they back away, parting like the Red Sea. No one says anything as I set my stick against my stall and hang my old Hull t-shirt up on a hook in my locker.

I'm used to being the center of attention, and for all the wrong reasons, but this? This is different. This is the first time I've really felt like no one is on my side. 

Yeah, I know.

Before, there was always someone in the lockerroom who still had faith in me. In Detroit and Dallas, it was Brett. I think Brett saw a little of himself in me, and decided I was someone he could mold in his image. In New York, Brendan took me under his wing and treated me like his kid brother.

Here, I don't have anybody.

Glen says he believes in me, but it's not really the same. He's not a peer, and it's not like he has much of a choice. He's the one taking the risk, bringing me on. He _has_ to say that. He'd be a fool not to.

I scan the lockerroom and see the doubt - even hatred - in their eyes. They don't think I deserve this. I can see it in their eyes.

I've been wondering that a lot myself, lately.

*

At first, I'd thought the shrink would be a total joke. He - or she - would just write me a scrip for antidepressants and that would be the end of it.

It wasn't, though. I should have expected that, I guess.

The shrink wanted to know why I was _so angry._ Why are you _so angry_ , Sean? I told him it was because all the coloring books in his waiting room were filled in, but he didn't think it was very funny.

*

The first round of practices, I take a few extra hard hits against the boards, elbows up around my head, a wet glove to the face. Nobody says anything to me, though. No one's said a single goddamned word to me since I got into Hartford. They just ram me into the boards, fix their equipment, and then skate off.

I hear whispers in the lockerroom, that the guy whose spot I took was popular with his teammates. I'd like to think that's why they haven't welcomed me into the fold, but I doubt that's actually it.

I'm not used to being ignored, not used to my teammates treating me as if I don't even exist.

When I get to my locker, my Hull t-shirt isn't hanging on the hook where I'd left it. I dig through my locker, sifting through gloves and socks and shin guards, to no avail. The shirt is gone.

"Did anybody see my t-shirt?" I ask.

No one says anything. They don't even look at me.

I've had that shirt since my first call up in 2002. It was the only thing I took with me when I left Cincinatti for Detroit, and it's probably not even fit to be worn anymore, but I could never make myself throw it away.

"My t-shirt, the Brett Hull one. It was hanging up in my locker this morning. Did anyone see it?" I ask again.

One of the young kids shifts uncomfortably and I zero in on him. "Bob, you have any idea who took my shirt?"

"Why's it such a big deal? It's just a t-shirt. You can just get a new one," he says. Some of the guys mumble their displeasure at Bobby for breaking the silence.

I knot my hands into fists. I can't let all my hard work go down the drain and clock this asshole, no matter how much I want to. "It's my lucky shirt," I say, behind gritted teeth.

I hear the soft snickers around me, muffled behind their gloves or their hands. They think this is some kind of joke - no, they know this is no joke. Some guys have weird traditions, rituals, talismans they hold onto. One of the guys doesn’t change his underwear if we’re on a winning streak. How is _that_ any less weird than my carrying around an old t-shirt? It's almost as if they _want_ me to crack, want me to slip up and do something stupid.

I turn back to my locker and count to twenty, like my shrink said. 

This must be karmic payback for being a dick.

*

When I get back to the hotel room I'm camping out in until I can find an apartment, I dial up an old friend.

" 'lo?" I can hear tinny canned laughter in the background, along with the squeal of a child or a small animal. "Brendan Shanahan speaking."

"Shanny, it's me, Sean. Avery."

Brendan covers up his surprise - disappointment? - at hearing my voice pretty well. "Sean! Wow, how're you doing? Long time, no see. Hear. Whatever."

"Yeah, man. You probably heard, though, right? I'm back," I say.

"Where'd you end up?"

"I'm in Hartford. I think Glen's gonna give me another shot," I say. "Don't think the Wolfpack guys like havin' me on the team so much, though. I heard the guy they moved to make room for me was pretty popular."

"Ah, that always sucks," Brendan says, making a clucking noise with his tongue. "Where're you staying?"

"The Marriott in downtown Hartford, next to the XL Center." I shrug, pointlessly. "It's nice."

"We'll have to get together sometime," Brendan says. "Catch up."

I know he's lying, that he doesn't really mean it. Brendan's just trying to be the dutiful ex-teammate and act like he gives a shit. "Okay, sounds good to me." I pause. "I missed talking to you, man. 's been too long."

"Yeah. See you around, Aves." Another explosion of canned laughter comes from the TV in the background. One of his children starts squawking. "Maggie! Leave your sister - "

He hangs up.

*

The Hull t-shirt pops up in my locker the following morning. It doesn't look any worse for the wear. I pluck it off the hook and smell it.

A sharp peal of laughter barges loudly into my thoughts and I turn around, tensing, fists clenching, ready to defend myself. But they're not laughing at me. A couple of the guys are huddled around the goalie's locker, laughing at something he's playing for them on his iPod.

I sit in front of my locker and start putting on my gear. I tug my shoulder pads on over my head and the familiar weight of them thumps solidly against my chest. It feels right, and for a second, it even feels like things are back the way they should be. Like the stars have realigned.

Then I hear the whispers and catch the furtive glances, and the good feelings wash away, replaced with cold fear.

I shove my headphones on, settle back with my iPod, and drown them out.

*

I get back to the hotel after our game - we lost to Portland and I barely played, but I'm happy with my night (a roughing penalty and a fighting major; hey, at least I'm contributing on the boxscore) - and head for the elevators when one of the receptionists calls out my name.

"Mr. Avery?"

I head over, instantly wary. "Yeah? What can I do for you - " I scan her nametag. " - Heather?"

"You have a guest," she says, fluttering her long eyelashes at me. "I sent him up to your room. He said you wouldn't mind." Heather the receptionist flutters her eyelashes at me some more and fluffs her curly blonde hair.

"Thanks, Heather." I offer her a small smile and head for the elevators. It must be Brendan. Who else could it be? The Devils were in New York to play the Islanders, and Nassau was less than two hours away from Hartford.

I decide to forgo the elevators in favor of the stairs.

Nothing tops running up three flights of stairs after a physically tough game. When I finally reach my floor, my muscles are burning pleasantly, the sides of my face are damp with sweat, and my breath is coming in rapid chuffs. I feel filled with purpose, and I think I get more of a workout climbing up those stairs than I did during the game.

I spot Brendan at the end of the hallway, leaning against my door.

"Hey." I call out to him and he looks up. His broad face breaks into a bright, happy grin when he sees me, and it's like coming home after a long day at work - which is technically true, I guess.

"Hey, A-Pup," he says, and I make a mental note to kick him for using that stupid nickname where people could possibly hear.

I barrel down the hallway and into his chest. "I'm totally gonna kick your ass for that," I promise, punching him in the arm.

Brendan punches back, laughing. "Someone's a little too hyped up," he says, pushing me away.

"Man, I'm just glad to see a friendly face," I say, stepping back and pulling out my key card. I swipe it through the lock and the door _whooshes_ open. "These guys look at me like I'm carrying the fucking plague."

Brendan laughs again, following me into the room. "Can't say I blame 'em." Brendan makes a beeline straight for the minibar and fusses with it before waggling his fingers at me for the key.

"Asshole." I head over and slide the key into his hand.

He grins and opens the minibar, pulling out airliner-sized bottles of alcohol. "Just teasing, Sean," Brendan says, opening his bottle and tossing it back one swallow, Adam's apple bobbing.

I twist off the cap off my bottle. "So, how's everything?" I ask.

"Good, I guess," he says, which doesn't sound very convincing. "We're all real good." Brendan sets the empty bottle on top of the minibar. "Cathy doesn't know I'm here seeing you."

"Well, I kinda figured that out," I reply. "Missed you, man. Been a while."

"Yeah, it has," Brendan says, nodding. He smirks a little. "Nice to see some things haven't changed, though."

I glower at him and he just tosses his head back and laughs. "Oh, shut up."

Brendan reaches over and clips me on the shoulder, still grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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